


Live by the Shadows

by medicatedfangs



Category: Blades of Light and Shadow (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:35:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23144035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medicatedfangs/pseuds/medicatedfangs
Summary: Prince Aerin is corrupted by the Shadow Court. You try your best to pull him back back onto Earth.
Relationships: Aerin Valleros/Main Character, Prince Aerin/Main Character
Kudos: 20





	Live by the Shadows

he lake had an effect on you, that’s for sure. Colors hazing and scents dizzying (the good kind, the kind that leaves you feeling a mouthful of static, a buzz that spreads and warms as it leaves your body through every small crevice). You could blame this on that, sure, you could also blame this on the rose-tinted glasses you wore miles before you came here. But you won’t. Because not even the others—Mal with his being streetwise, Tyril and his perception—could have predicted this.

Prince Aerin stands bleeding tendrils of shadow. His eyes are glazed over with a murkiness one of his kind should never be caught in, and they stare in no particular direction. He senses your party with a deeper perception, one indiscriminate and sharp. And then he lashes his dark tendrils at each one of you.

“Hey!” Imtura snatches a tendril mid-air and crushes it within her palm. Her muscles pull taut with the action and her nostrils flare as she glares down at the lost prince. “Is this the best you’ve got? My mates slay leviathans as a pastime!”

The other party members wrangle with their own tendril in the meantime, faring from Nia’s impromptu light defenses to Tyril’s practiced swordsmanship. Even Prince Baldur carries his own weight, landing multiple blows with his bow and arrow. You swing your own weapon just in time to save yourself from Aerin’s attack. _Just barely_ —you’re too shaken up by the prince’s transformation and stagger when the shadowed limb falls to your feet. It gives him just the opportunity to thrust another attack right towards you.

It whips around your wrist and drags you through the forest’s floor. 

“Kit!”

“Help!” you cry out, the shadow searing your arm with piercing frigidness. When you grasp onto it with your other hand, you’re met with a bitter emptiness. It weighs heavy and collapses in your chest like you’ve got the whole sun to carry on your shoulders. And then, you feel _him_. You feel the resentment, the self-pity, and an anger tasting like vengeance. Then you feel something foreign, _sinister_ , and deeper, manipulative. 

_Duke Erthax._

He’s got a grip on Aerin like a vice, of his emotions and sorrow, and places it all in his fist of power. It’s in that you sense a weak spot, a vulnerability, that is neither yours nor the Duke’s. 

You’re thrusted back out when you find yourself flat at Prince Aerin’s feet, his blank stare meeting yours. You hear the cries and growls of your party. Beasts have sprouted out from hidden parts of the forest, gnawing on Tyril’s armor with decaying fangs. Imtura punches through one, two, and guards Nia behind her back as she summons her magic. Mal and Baldur have teamed up, mowing down animals near and far with their bows and daggers. Baldur turns to keep a hateful eye on his brother. The latter pays him no mind.

He grabs the front of your clothing, pulling you up to meet face-to-face. He’s glazed with sweat, cheeks blotchy and the veins along his face have grown black and bulge with strain. 

“Aerin,” you cry out before you can stop yourself. “Don’t do this.”

Hearing you speak his name does nothing for him. His eyes seem to look past you, and his mind elsewhere. Of course, you’re not foolish enough to believe that. Especially with deathgrip he has to keep you upright—your feet has given out on you. Your back hurts. Your skull throbs. And frankly, you just might piss yourself. 

Even more so now, when Prince Aerin opens his mouth and out comes—not _his_ voice. It’s a voice that speaks so deeply that it sounds like it’s coming from somewhere further inside Aerin. 

“Finally,” he drawls, and the edge of his lips twitches slightly. “It is only the beginning but it feels as though I _have made it._ ”

“H-huh?” you attempt to stand but his strength forces you down. 

“Every single one of you have minds so weak it is no wonder you crave a hive to follow,” he grins, “a king here and a God there? Look where that has brought you all! Have you no agency to be your own ruler? If you must insist, _I_ will be your monarch. ”

His words sting, though you know it shouldn’t. You have no idea who’s even talking, the Prince or Duke? At this point, either title spells ruin for you. But you cannot take any chances.

“Aerin,” you grunt, “This isn’t you! Don’t let him take over. You can defeat him.”  
Something in his expression changes, softens, and then hardens, and with a stronger grasp and stone-cold face he spits, “No! I have no reason to do away with what fills me with life, one I had chased all my life. Now, it is _here_ , in _me_ , and all I have to do is get rid of you.”

He shoves you out of his reach then, and you tumble to the ground on your back. He brandishes his sword and you only have enough time to gather your bearings. You scramble to parry his attack, rolling away from him—and closer to your party—and prepare yourself to defend against him. The others struggle with their own demons. Imtura fails to connect her fists to the monsters all while skeletal beings evade Tyril’s sword with slight maneuvers, his blade slicing through the empty gaps of their ribs. 

Aerin, or more appropriately Duke Erthax, seems to have already lost his interest in you, instead moving towards the most prominent figure in his life—Prince Baldur. He struggles pulling back the string of his bow, the blood and sweat making the thin string slip piteously from between his fingers. Nia and Mal handle the heavy work, but even then Nia’s light could merely be described as mingling with Aerin’s shadow magic. None of them are ready enough to take on the corrupted prince on their own, so it’s up to you to mitigate that. 

You jump before the prince and call out to him, blocking the blow of his sword when he swings and lock him there long enough to conjure a plan. 

You know this isn’t him. You think you know this isn’t his fault. When the Duke snuck up on him, you have no idea, but it had to be within a short timeframe, definitely no longer than the time you’ve spent with him. The Duke must’ve caught him when he was vulnerable, but—

—you’ve also caught him when he’s been vulnerable. His past words resound in your head. Then it clicks. 

“Aerin,” you say steadily. “This isn’t what you want. You’ve never wanted to become a ruler. You’ve always been aware of the setbacks that came with it. You’ve always had your own goals—one separate from your brother’s, one that gave you friendship and freedom. Listen to me, Aerin, you _can_ be free!”

The prince sways in his steps, a quick contemplative look that’s gone the moment it arrived. He hardens again, though softer than before. He swings his sword blindly, missing you by a mile. He seems to recognize this, because he calms himself before diving again. You don’t want to hurt him, not when he’s like this, so you try your best to dodge and deflect him.

Suddenly, he speaks up again, hollowed. “All my life I have lived underneath the thumb that is Baldur’s power. The greater of two.” He glances at Baldur, and with a gleeful smile he watches his brother struggle against his monsters. “Now, I finally know what it’s like to be inside his princely, polished shoes. And it is so, _so satisfying_.”

“No, it isn’t,” you yell. You land a light blow to catch his attention and continue, “You know what _is_ satisfying? Our night at the lake. When we sat and looked at our reflections in that glowing water. The way we both felt that coolness on our skin after we took the stress off each other’s shoulders. The knowledge that we shared. That my brother can be saved. That you can be saved.”

Prince Aerin stands there stunned. His sword shudders weakly in his grip. The darkness around him seems to lift, or at least reflect the light that bounces off the forest’s walls. You seem to have touched him. 

Your name falls from his lips faintly, and then he’s curled onto himself. He drops to his hands and knees and heaves painfully, until finally, “You know nothing. None of the knowledge I shared is true, you naive fool.”

“You don’t truly think that,” you say. Cautiously, you kneel at his side, far enough to defend yourself if he tries his luck. “If anything, you’re the fool, Aerin Valleros.”   
He whips up, tense, shocked, and angry. But then it melts into sadness, confusion, and even more so, disappointment. His chest grumbles, so deep and low you feel it vibrate the ground where you kneel. “I am, aren’t I.”

His voice holds none of the reverb it previously did. No more of that spacious emptiness. 

Neither of you move in that moment, though you watch the way his back rises and falls with every deep breath he takes. The cries of battles behind you begin to settle, and from the corner of your eye you see a finishing light burst from Nia’s hands. You rest a hand on Aerin’s shoulder. He looks up, broken. 

“Need help?”

“As always.”

You pull him to his feet. He coughs embarrassedly once you’re eye-to-eye (or almost, anyway). Up close, you can still see the straining in his face, his bloodshot eyes, and the grayish tone of his veins. His fist is clenched at his side and his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows repeatedly and that’s when you realize he’s still fighting. Not your party, but himself, and Duke Erthax. The realization makes you spike in empathy—suddenly you’re flushed with his strain as well. You step back and he smiles coyly at you. 

“Well—"

Then his eyes are wild with panic, the darkness around him coils violently and in a flash, and you can barely process what’s in front of you until you hear a telltale pew! and your vision is clouded by an inky miasma and when you blink you see— 

Oh, no. 

—An arrow lodged deep in the crux of Aerin’s chest. His fist is wrapped tight around its shaft. 

You stumble back, looking into his eyes and following his gaze to his brother. Prince Baldur lowers his bow and stands with haughtiness, as though it isn’t a fatal blow he just delivered, but a _bullseye_.

Your party shares a collective gasp.

“Prince!”

“What’d you do that for?!”

“Your own brother!”

The fallen monsters seem to come alive, for just a second, before crumbling back to the floor. And with a thump, Aerin follows, too. His tendrils shrivel up and shadows bloom alongside blood on his chest, billowing once before waning. He fights with all the life he’s got left, his expression taut and fists curled, but the essence Duke Erthax gave him seems to have been his only life source, so when his darkness fades completely, so does he. 

What you’re left with is the shell of a person, in more ways than one.  
No one dares to break the silence. Only the pristine sound of nature may speak. Till Prince Baldur, like most of his affronts, calls the attention back to himself.   
He approaches Aerin’s body stoically; no grief, no sorrow, and definitely no remorse. He kneels down, one hand resting on his knee, the other coming down to rest on Aerin’s shoulder. He rubs it, gently, brotherly. It’s almost a warm sight, if only you refrain from acknowledging what happens before and after.

“What a shame, you are. Born in my shadow, raised in my shadow, and, unfortunately, you had to die in your own shadow. Think that’s just the life you were made for.” 

He turns to your group, frozen in fear and disgust, and slings his bow over his back. “Now, shall we venture onward? I reckon Undermount isn’t much far from here.”


End file.
